Darcy Walker - Season Two, Episode 2

by A. J. Lape

  “Badass,” Grumpy agreed. “You okay?” I was so dehydrated my answer was on tape delay. When I couldn’t string any sounds together, they pulled me to a stand. In severe danger of faceplanting, I leaned into Grumpy’s side as discreetly as possible, focusing on Shafer who was still doing that don’t-throw-up thing. “And I certainly hope we’re through making an example out of you,” Grumpy added. His words weren’t delivered to Lincoln or even Roper. Shafer had just made it to his feet, and Grumpy leveled a stare on him like he wanted to tack his face to a dartboard and unload a million blades between his eyes.

  “Is there something you want to talk to me about, Bradshaw?” Shafer growled lowly. No one else was within earshot other than Coker and me, which was good.

  Grumpy licked his lips, but Coker responded before Grumpy had a chance to. “No, sir. Bradshaw said all he intends to say, but I’d like to rubberstamp what he said and how he said it…sir.” I couldn’t tell if that was sarcastic or not, but it struck me as funny that almost everyone I’d glommed onto at the academy tended to go rogue just as I did. Here was the thing though. Grumpy and Coker were both letting their testosterone speak for them, wondering how I’d gotten into the shape where I’d almost been choked to death while Shafer was on the clock.

  Eugene Anthony, it had been verified, was on Flakka, which was like cocaine, bath salts, and ecstasy having a three-way. That should’ve been answer enough.

  “Hey, you handled yourself well in there, Walker. My balls object...but I don’t.”

  Something about Riley Shafer was jagged and white-hot. I’d lay money his fiancée never even thought of straying. “Do you still trust me?” he said jokingly, but his wary eyes said he was serious as a heart attack. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, briefly glancing at his feet.

  “No,” I joked.

  He slid his eyes up and winked. “At least we have that in common. Ride along soon?”

  Sure. Right after I WD40’d my joints and cried in the shower. “Roger-dodger,” I said, adding a salute.

  Shafer was on a bit of an apology tour, reminding me one more time he was sorry. The moment he ambled toward his car, I heard Huxley’s blowhard mouth before he even opened it. When he made it to my side, a gust of wind hit me in the eyes, and something lodged onto my left contact. I squealed like a stuck pig.

  “My contact,” I gasped, slamming my hand over my left eye. “A demon attacked it.”

  Before I knew it, Huxley dropped his backpack, wrapping me in his arms. “Let me see,” he murmured. Huxley wasn’t much taller than me, and we were face-to-face, breathing one another’s air.

  Cupping my face in both his hands, he leaned closer, but it wasn’t for my eye. It was for my lips. My temper flared. “Don’t even think about it,” I muttered. “No one touches me like that unless I at least get dinner and a movie first.”

  “Mmmm, you have beautiful green eyes,” he said. My eyes had more bags under them than the belly of a cargo plane. Huxley was in heat like a dog. To be fair, I’d never seen a dog in heat, but I’d seen Lucky when he wanted to do the dog-nasty, and it was embarrassing. But that was Huxley, wasn’t it? Moving in for the kill, capitalizing on a situation no matter how he or someone else had gotten there. I gave him an aw-c’mon look. Like we both knew it wouldn’t start or end well no matter what happened in between.

  “Need a lifesaver?” I heard Grumpy say.

  Huxley stiffened and dropped his hands, giving Grumpy a malicious grin. There was always a thick undertone whenever those two were together. Something like, You push me, I’m going to find a way to never make you move again kind of stuff. That had been clear all week. Grumpy had the acreage to back that type of behavior up; Huxley was about thirty pounds lighter. He rode into town on the I’m-so-stupid horse.

  Both of us watched Huxley snag his backpack and stalk away, contemplating what the guy was truly capable of. Grumpy sighed and watched me blink the eyelash out of my eye. “Walker, your neck still looks like…”

  He grunted and sighed more deeply, not completing his thought.

  “Feels like it too,” I said. What had happened was definitely a little bit more than a woopsies, but I anticipated nothing but smooth sailing from here on out…fingers crossed.

  A smile lined his jaw, but it held no hint of humor inside. He shifted on his feet, gazing around like he would protect me from whatever fate would conjure up next. “That video…it was just…” He stopped and swallowed. “Dylan called me this morning,” he said in a segue. “He’s worried about you.” He paused and licked his lips. “I am too, but then I’m not. I promised him you would survive when the rest of us were rotting in the ground.”

  I blew out a blast of frustration. “I’m okay. Don’t worry. And Dylan needs to only be concerned about getting better. Besides, me and chaos are a package deal. He knows that, all right?”

  Unfortunately, that had been the landscape of our relationship.

  A car horn beeped and pulled into a parking space right beside us. I pivoted to see Grumpy’s girlfriend, Ivy Morrison, in a white Range Rover. Here’s a history lesson of my relationship with Ivy. She’d picked on me since childhood, and being around her was paranoia at its apex. Our core beliefs did not match.

  She exited the car and gave Grumpy her keys, so he could drive. She must’ve brought him to the academy earlier, which meant they’d spent…I shivered off the thought, figuring he had a right to be stupid.

  Ivy had recently scored an internship as a television reporter. Not because she loved the news…because she thought she’d look good on camera. We didn’t acknowledge one another. It was more of a case of studiously ignoring the other. Grumpy gave me a big hug goodbye and made his way to the driver’s side door. With her frosted white hair blowing in the wind, Ivy slinked around the front of the car in a white mini-dress, hugging her stick-thin body. A bird pooped on her shoulder right before she slid into her seat, the nasty goo leaving a black skid mark draining down her back. I slid into my car, smiling.

  Chapter 7

  THIS WAS A BASES-LOADED-AND-TWO-OUTS KIND OF THING.

  Ugly Pizza customers could request a specific shape of pizza for an extra charge. Bodhi Kessler and the frat guys at Double XL regularly requested cheese Double-Ds, complete with pepperoni nipples.

  I did not find it odd Bodhi had placed that order Thursday evening. What I’d found odd was I’d agreed to work from seven until ten when all I’d wanted to do was crash and burn. I should have been home resting. It was back to the grind tomorrow, but if I rested…I thought. And if I thought, then I staggered under the weight of my panic. I couldn’t escape what the sins of Kirby York had almost done. Coming into work a few hours rerouted my mind from what-could-have-been and beat googling how to start a GoFundMe page to help me pay my bills.

  Jumping up onto the doorstep of the large white building on Gayley Avenue, I rang the doorbell with my elbow to deliver a pizza orgy of a dozen pepperoni-nippled pies.

  A warm feeling seeped into my bones when Bodhi Kessler answered the door. “Twelve Double-Ds?” I said. Bodhi raised a flirting brow as he sucked on a juul, wanting me to say the N-word. “The usual perverted pepperoni nipples,” I added with a groan.

  Bodhi grinned, his black hair and hazel eyes full of mischief. We’d met as soon as I’d moved to LA, scoring my first large tip by singing a karaoke duet with him. Tall and lean, he had a bangin’ body—a smaller version of his action hero father, Jack Kessler.

  “Nice to see you haven’t lost your touch, future police officer of LA. I’m impressed.”

  With one hand, I removed the silver juul from his lips and dropped it in his red Solo cup with a splash. The accompanying fizz was priceless.

  Doing the pizza and money exchange, I couldn’t help but gaze around the interior. Chi Chi Lambda (XXΛ), or Double XL as most called it, operated in that business-as-usual mode. Some brothers were shooting pool while others were doing belly shots off a sorority girl lying on the coffee table. These guys singlehandedly
had helped me pay my bills since becoming a delivery driver—a thought that almost made me tear up until Amnesty Stine poked her beeyotch head into our conversation.

  “How are you, Darcy? After…you know…not being able to contain that suspect.”

  Blink-blink-blink…she blinks her eyes like an innocent newborn.

  Uggghhh. No one could amputate a mood like Amnesty. When dealing with her rich, entitled butt, only one thought came to mind: kill or be killed. “I learned some self-defense moves just today,” I said cheerily. “Would you like me to show you how I can snap someone’s neck?”

  I hadn’t learned how to snap someone’s neck. I’d learned the fine art of ball grabbing.

  Amnesty snorted. “You’re such a bitch.”

  “And I’m guessing you’re single?” I said, referring to her drunken union with Bodhi. “That mistake ever get rectified, Bodhi?”

  Please, God. Let it be yes.

  “Free as a bird,” he said, going Lynyrd Skynyrd on us.

  “Best news I’ve heard all day,” I said. “Doncha think, Amnesty?”

  Amnesty rearranged her white tank top. Perhaps she attempted to show Bodhi what he’d been missing, or perhaps she thought her boobs would intimidate me. “Again, you’re a bitch,” she hissed, “and a—”

  Bodhi stepped in front of me, his hazel eyes flashing a fire that warned Amnesty to tread lightly. “Apparently, I’m going to need to spell this out for you…again,” he blasted. “I told you that you aren’t welcome here anymore. Not after you uploaded that video of Darcy when you should’ve been trying to help her.”

  Huh. I’d figured as much, and when my mind was completely firing, I would plot a diabolical payback.

  Amnesty slowly grinned, exposing the carnivorous smile of a wolf with its jowls around a rabbit. “I didn’t want to be here anyway. There’s no humidifier in this building, and it’s drying out my skin. I think it’s giving me psoriasis.”

  “Nothing gives you psoriasis,” I told her. “Psoriasis is thought to be an immune system problem when the T cells in your body misfire and cause an accelerated growth of skin cells.” I was a not-so-closeted nerd.

  “I don’t have anything communicable, bitch,” she spat.

  I rolled my eyes. “That’s not what an immune system problem or response means, Amnesty.” I leaned forward with an exaggerated sniff. “Exactly how much kush did you smoke tonight?”

  Amnesty stalked off, her short-shorts and fake butt swaying like a tree in the wind. One thing we could count on was she would always be back. Bodhi was the It Guy on the UCLA campus, and Amnesty was addicted to him as much as she was to looking in the mirror.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I said when Bodhi gave me his eyes.

  “Oh, hell, yeah, I did. I’m loyal to my friends.”

  After I settled up at Ugly Pizza several minutes later, taking my cut for the evening, I drove back to the Taylors’ home in Bel Air—an eight-figure dream home their son and daughter bought them last year. Exhaustion knocked on my bones, and on days like today, a little bit of mouth-to-mouth from Dylan was needed. Imagine my surprise when I strolled inside and heard Willow’s feathery voice. Willow shouldn’t be in LA. Kirby York had made her face a punching bag, from best I could tell, but Lincoln was being honored this weekend with a distinguished service award, and she was his usual date. Thankfully, Lucky hadn’t sniffed me out, so I chose to remain incognito. Why? I wanted to hear Willow’s unfiltered take on the Kirby York affair, and I feared she would hold back if she knew I was in the room.

  “Lord, I hate these things, Will,” Lincoln murmured. “You didn’t have to come…all things considering,” he added. “Someone inevitably will shove a camera in our faces Saturday night.”

  Lincoln had worked in the vice unit for years, only agreeing to be homicide supervisor three years prior when the man who had done it for years retired and relocated to Tahoe. Being in vice crimes, Lincoln became a worrier. Willow had been hidden, for the most part, until Dylan. Cameras followed her everywhere, and when she and Dylan were photographed together, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out their relation. A huge exposé had been done with a family tree linking back to Lincoln. Lincoln debated murdering the reporter who broke that story.

  “I couldn’t miss your awards ceremony,” she said. “I haven’t missed one…ever.”

  No words for a bit. Followed by a bone-deep moan. “Dammit, Will. If this is your face five days later, I shudder to think what it looked like before. What about the rest of your body?”

  “Just some scrapes and bruises. I’ll be okay. No one will know what happened by the time my makeup artist waves her magic wand.”

  Everyone’s insecurities were going to come crashing down when Willow entered the room—smoky eye or not.

  Lincoln grunted, and I heard him slide into a kitchen chair. By the accompanying squeak, Willow must’ve joined him in an adjacent seat. “Gonna have to be a lot of magic,” Lincoln grumbled. “That vicious, huh?”

  She didn’t respond.

  He sighed. Paused once more. “What’s wrong?” he inquired tenderly. “Are you in pain?”

  “I’ll heal, Daddy. Colt is having trouble with it though. I was interviewed right before I got on the plane today. Detective Battle dropped by to check on everyone and wanted me to answer more questions...see if I’d remembered anything that could help the investigation.”

  “Standard procedure,” he reassured her. “Especially when there has been a violent attack. Oftentimes victims are so traumatized by the event they omit details. Once the shock wears off, they can think more clearly.”

  “I know that, but Colt sat in on the interview and got a little too much of the big picture. Once he heard the details—how my underwear was halfway off—he had to walk the neighborhood to compose himself. Momma had to go after him.”

  Lincoln didn’t miss a beat. “Let your mother handle your brother, dear. Don’t worry, yeah?”

  Willow sighed and got up from her chair. The Keurig kicked on, and she made Lincoln or herself a cup of coffee. “I just hate seeing him like that. The last time he was like that was when Darcy was—”

  When Darcy was kidnapped in high school, I completed in my head.

  “I know,” Lincoln said, cutting her off, “and Dylan was a million times worse. Lord, bad memory. I’m just going to bury that one right now. Do you remember how he—”

  She sighed again. “We were burying the memory, Daddy.” There was a blackout on words where I pondered what incident with Dylan they referred to. And would I ever truly know what he’d endured while I was kidnapped? It certainly hadn’t been utopian for me…but what had it truly been like for him?

  During that brief interlude, I heard Willow open the refrigerator, presumably adding creamer to her cup. Once she had her coffee the way she wanted it, she slid back into the seat. “Daddy, I…the whole time during the attack…I just kept thinking I was glad it was me and not Remy. She couldn’t have done it. York was too strong. As strange as this sounds, I remained relatively calm…doing all the self-defense moves you taught me. Obviously, some worked, while others didn’t. But like I said, he was strong…and deranged. I cannot prove this, but I had the feeling it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to force himself on a woman. And I told Detective Battle that.”

  Lincoln blew out a pained breath of air so loudly it had to have hurt his throat. “You have a good gut, dear. I’ve come to trust it. If that was your thought, then more than likely it is true.” Willow didn’t say anything for a while, and then I heard her quiet whimpers. “Aw, Will. You know how much I love you. What else is wrong, honey? I can feel it.”

  The screechy movement of a chair on tile happened once more. Lincoln, I think, scooted his seat forward to hug his daughter. “They were going to kill Finn, Daddy…and I was being held down…forced to watch it and just pray. York sliced his eye, and he couldn’t see. York kept pounding away on his blind side, and it made me so mad. And then Dylan s
howed. I know God sent him.”

  Lincoln chuckled a sound I hadn’t heard come from him before—a sound I hadn’t heard from anyone really. It was the sound of a man who was thankful but also angry—angry that he’d been denied his chance to settle the score himself in a world that was full of unfair. “Assholes didn’t know what hit them, did they?” he said with pride in his grandson.

  Willow giggled amongst her tears. “It was like they’d stepped in front of a semi. Dylan…he’s…I don’t even know how to describe the amount of power he can generate. And then Domino showed, and it was like some righteous convoy.”

  Lincoln laughed once more…that time with joy. “Can I tell you how much I would’ve loved to have seen that? Holy hell, the both of them are two times the size of the normal man.” Willow blew her nose and Lincoln settled back in his seat. “So about the meeting with Battle,” he continued. “Did you remember anything?”

  Willow’s turn to exhale. “I did. I tried to get up and help Finn when those two others showed, but the moment I made it to my knees, he slammed me back onto the pavement. It was confusing because I couldn’t understand how I could be watching two people bash Finn’s face in…with York getting up and slashing his eye…while York still held me down. The more I thought about it, the more it became clear something was off about my recall. Someone else had been in the alley with us, holding me down all along. When Detective Battle asked me to describe him, I remembered he had tattoos on his forearms. Battle showed me the mug shots and body shots of those in custody, and the guy holding me down was not one of them. I didn’t see his face except for a split second, but I’ll never forget his arms. Trust me, Daddy. He is not in jail. One got away. There were six guys total. Only five are in custody.”

  Wait…whoa, whoa-whoa…WHAT?